The brittle grass presses painfully into my palm,

the smell of rain flooding my senses as the wind picks up.

The wind picks up whipping my hair around my face, 

bending the grass with every gust.

The warm sticky air clings to my skin,

as sweat beads at my brow.

The clouds that cover the sun turn dark.

Filled with rage, ready to let go. 

However, my legs are useless. My mind begs them to move.

But they don't budge.

Lost and confused in the field, like Dorthy in OZ.

I look around, but I don’t have a Tin Man, Scarecrow, or Lion to help me.

I turn towards the storm that will soon flood the field, 

washing away our crops.

Soon, the wind rattles the posts, bending the wire like it does the grass. 

What am I to do?

What am I to do besides pull myself across the pasture.

My arms burn with every pull, clawing at the brittle grass.

The brittle grass that scrapes against my skin.

And at that moment, the clouds finally let go.

Finally letting go, the rain strikes my face.

My scraped skin, delicate to the touch.

An hour goes by before I feel the rough floorboards of the house,

brushing against my calloused fingertips.

Safe and inside, my body finally relaxes.

My drenched clothes soak the floor, but I don’t care.

My arms sore, my hands tired, I lean into the rough wood.